


arsonist's lullaby

by illinois_e



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (not ACTUALLY a fetish but still), Abusive Relationships, Choking, Codependency, Dom/sub Undertones, Foot Fetish, Kinktober 2019, Light Masochism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 21:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illinois_e/pseuds/illinois_e
Summary: He would dismantle himself, pick his whole body apart so Riko could choose which pieces of Kevin he wanted to fit the spaces where the broken parts of himself used to be. It’s easy, when you’re the only two human beings in the world whose anatomy is made up solely of exy rackets strung together by ropes named fear and rage.





	arsonist's lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> you're supposed to write a fic every day for kinktober but here i am, happy after completing ONE SINGLE FIC. guess that's where being a slow af write leaves u at.
> 
> anyway there's nothing to talk abt here this is just filthy porn. title and opening lines from hozier - arsonist's lullaby (i love hozier, as u might as well have noticed)
> 
> ALSO, as there is choking, anyone who reads this is legally obliged to do it while hearing to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bx51eegLTY8).
> 
> and a big thanks to my friends morg and analu for proofreading this. and thanks to daphne for the feet massage hc. love u girlies.

_ don’t you ever tame your demons _

_ but always keep ‘em on a leash _

_ — _

Kevin's fingers go through the motions like a well-oiled machine:

First the twists, left and right, left and right and then again, until he can hear Riko's breathing started to slow, his body turning off the frantical rhythm they keep on the court. Then he starts rubbing the soles of his feet until the biggest nodules are gone; bends his toes, back and forth; squeezes his heels, which sometimes hurt so much that Riko can't put his foot down on the floor without a wince marring his otherwise perfect, porcelain-like visage; then traces up to his Achilles tendon, pretending that the small sighs leaving Riko's lips do not affect him, that he's doing this on the best of intentions, no hidden motives whatsoever; lastly, he circles his thin, marble-like ankles — he never understood how people could find _ ankles _ beautiful before he turned this into routine —, and by then Riko is already a puddle beneath his palms, soft and pliant and (almost) mellowed, like he wasn't screaming his throat raw an hour ago, like he hadn't hit at least three newbies with the butt of his racket, like the soles of his new shoes weren't loosening with how quickly he wore them off.

“You're great at this, you know,” Riko says, and figures he must have softened a particular sore spot, because praise is as hard to draw from Riko as diamonds from a coal mine. There's a slight hoarse tone to his voice that could mean a thousand different things, so Kevin tries not to grab at what he specifically wants it to. “You can be the team’s massagist, when you retire.”

“Flatterer,” Kevin retorts, not at all focusing on the _ when you retire _ part, since he can’t see himself doing anything other than exy until his death. It is one thing that Riko, who already proclaimed loud and clear that he’s going to end his life at thirty-five — _ if I get there, which is something I don’t believe will happen _— doesn’t have to spend much time pondering about.

Riko lets out a soft, breathy moan when Kevin presses down on his heels, and Kevin fights back the grin that threatens to make itself visible on his face. He was never one to display his vainglorious streak more than what was strictly necessary for the interviews. Riko did that enough for the both of them.

“I’m serious,” Riko insisted, in a futile attempt to keep his mouth from spilling any other shameful noises. “I wouldn’t say it, if I wasn’t.”

With a kiss over each arch, Kevin lets Riko’s feet go, before he reaches for his hands, lying intertwined over his stomach. He pulls Riko into a sitting position, which is how usually they do that—Kevin’s attention focused on Riko’s slender fingers, pretending not to notice how Riko’s eyes are fixed on his face, always analyzing, looking as if he’s one step ahead of Kevin, planning the next move while Kevin is to busy focusing on the present.

Riko is absorbing into his mind the location of every pore, every misshapen strand of hair falling over his forehead, the exact roundness of every curl. Kevin wouldn’t be surprised to find out a drawing of himself in the exact position, later, on Riko’s newest sketchbook. Somehow, he’s always finding those—over the desk; next to the History book he’s currently reading; inside their shared drawer of trinkets. Almost as if Riko didn’t bother to hide it anymore. Almost as if he wanted Kevin to see.

(kevin never says anything about them. he tried to draw riko, once, both as a _ thank you _ and a _ me too_, but no matter how hard he tried, nothing he did could ever come close to the image of riko imprinted in his mind’s eye. so he did the next best thing, which was to slip under the covers after everything was quiet and take riko in his mouth, as if he could convey with his tongue the same feelings that riko managed to let out through his fingers)

Before Kevin can properly start on Riko’s hands, however, Riko breaks their usual arrangement, throwing one leg over Kevin’s thighs and sitting on his lap, face to face. 

His only answer to Kevin’s pluzzed look is, “It’s more comfortable like this.”

“I have zero space right now, you know.”

Riko hums, because he doesn't care. And Kevin, poor Kevin, can't concentrate on anything besides the solid weight of his body across his own thighs. He sucks a sharp breath when Riko comes even closer, his lips touching the shell of Kevin’s ear, airy, standing on the line between the _ here _ and the _ not-here. _“It’s the whole point.”

_ Okay_, Kevin says to himself. _ Remember: deep breaths. _

He grabs the bottle of oil, squeezing a dollop onto his hand before smoothing it over Riko’s right hand. The motions aren't so much different from the ones he’d just made with his feet, and Kevin lets himself relax once again in the familiarity of it.

First the fingers, then the back of the hand — Kevin can never get over the graceful slope of it, like it was handmade by some deceitful god; but then, they always said the most beautiful things are the most prone to destruction —, the wrist, the palm. Kevin’s thumbs carve paths over skin calloused from gripping a racket so hard it blisters. He remembers how Riko would keep the grip strong even as he fainted with exhaustion in the middle of court.

Like it was a lifeline to something only he knew.

Kevin holds Riko’s hand palm down and interlaces their fingers, using his to stretch Riko’s apart. Then he stretches the wrist and turns it left and right before releasing it. As he reaches for the left hand, Riko moves his fingers of his right as if they had somehow been replaced by newer ones. 

Lack of space notwithstanding, Kevin manages a pretty good job of it, by his standards. Or so he was thinking, until Riko starts squirming.

“Stop it,” Kevin chides him, when the movement makes his hand slip. Riko’s head is resting on his shoulder, so Kevin can't see the glint of mischievousness sparkling in his eyes. 

“You’re putting too much pressure.” Kevin bites back his urge to retort _ I’m using the same pressure as always_. It won't be of use, anyway. He holds his strength back, still wondering what is the motive for that since Riko usually tells him to go harder, not lighter. “Ah!” he gasps, when Kevin’s thumbs ran over his wrist. “See?”

“If I go any lighter, you won’t feel anything,” Kevin complains, half exasperated. The other half is too well used to Riko’s games. 

He tries really hard not to let out any sound — that might resemble a whine — when Riko raises his head and fixes his dark eyes on Kevin’s, his expression a mask of boredom and detachment. “It’s not my fault you can’t do it right, is it?”

The question is purely rhetorical, and Kevin has the common sense not to answer. Instead, he settles for changing his approach, “You said I was great, like, less than ten minutes ago.”

Riko only raises his eyebrows in a utterly nonchalant way. “So what? It was great ten minutes ago. Now it’s shit.”

If Kevin didn’t have the beginnings of a backbone beaten out of him years ago, he would’ve thrown Riko on the bed and told him to stop taking everything from granted. Instead, he shields his smugness behind the flat line of his mouth and runs his thumbs over Riko’s wrists again—only this time, he does it hard enough to give him the surety of an incoming bruise. Just like Riko always asked of him.

There isn’t, however, any sign of pain in Riko’s face. The only things Kevin can see are his closed eyes, his lips parted to give way to an airy, almost inaudible gasp, his hips undulating so that his crotch rubs against Kevin at every other second.

“You must believe me really stupid,” Kevin says, his hand hovering over Riko’s hip and the uncovered expanse of his thigh, unsure of where to stay. He settles for the hip, so he can grind Riko down on his lap while he thrusts up. “If you thought I wasn’t going to notice what you were doing.”

Riko starts to chuckle at that, but the sound changes to a breathy moan when Kevin’s hand circles his neck, the thumb pressing down over his pulsepoint. “Not stupid, just… Unusually slow.”

Distinctly, as if someone had plunged his head into cold water, Kevin wonders how big his hand is, wrapped around Riko’s neck like that. Or maybe it’s Riko’s neck that is too thin—but it doesn’t matter. The thing is: he is sure that he could crush his windpipe, if he wanted to. The closest knife is under Riko’s pillow, at least three meters away. Riko could never reach it. He overpowered Kevin with his words and threats; never with brute strength.

“Kevin,” Riko beckons him, and suddenly the spell is broken and Kevin retreats his hand as if burning. That train of thought tastes like blasphemy, like heresy, like dancing to the music around a sacrificial pyre. “Look at me.”

He does, because it what he always does. Riko orders, Kevin obeys. Like the moon following the Earth in its trajectory, Kevin is the satellite to Riko’s planet, the planet to Riko’s star.

When he stares back at those eyes, however, there’s only one thing of which Kevin is sure of, and that is: Riko had been thinking the same as him.

That’s why he is not surprised when Riko reaches for his hand and places it exactly where it was. Kevin’s mind can’t decipher the message, can’t find out if it means _ I’m not afraid _ or _ Do it_. Riko keeps grinding their hips together, and by now most of Kevin’s blood flew south already. He can’t concentrate. He can’t _ think_.

Riko leans into the hand as if it’s a caress, not a death threat. _ That’s where having a death wish since you were thirteen gets you_, Kevin thinks, pressing down on the carotid. Riko bites his lips in a way no one who’s in the imminence of death should.

(but then, that’s the whole point of it)

“Come on,” Riko says, and he laughs, like a devil sat down on Kevin’s shoulders; only there is no angel opposite him. There is only Riko, in every direction he looks, in every breath he takes, like a winged, fanged monster, ready to devour him whole; skin and bones and all the rest. Riko laughs, his throat vibrating under Kevin’s hands, and Kevin wonders if it’s possible to get high on a sound. “What is it they say? Oh. _ Take my breath away. _”

(in kevin’s opinion, no monster should be allowed to be this fucking hot)

Kevin makes good on his previous plan to throw Riko on the mattress, but he doesn’t walk away. At that point, it was unlikely that anything could have made him walk away. Riko is spread out below him, his face a grinning, wicked sin. Kevin wants to rip the smile out of his face. Kevin wants to kiss him until the world stops spinning.

He gets close enough so that their noses touch before whispering, “Be quiet.” Because their curfew didn’t sound yet, and Kevin can hear the shuffling of feet on the red hallway. Most of their teammates presume they fuck each other on a daily basis, but Kevin prefers to leave their assumptions unconfirmed. Gossip runs rampant in such close quarters, and there are things too dangerous to fall on the Master’s ears.

Riko pretends to zip his mouth shut. Kevin contemplates the act of strangling him.

But he couldn’t—not ever. For how much he thought about it, he could never bring himself to end Riko’s life.

(_pity_, riko said. _ it would spare us both_)

So Kevin does the next best thing to leave Riko breathless: he kisses him.

Riko kisses back like a starved man, all teeth and blood and hunger. He kisses back as if somehow he can steal a portion of Kevin’s life force through his lips, to get his blood flowing, to teach his decaying, rotten heart what it feels like to beat. Riko tastes like the peppermints he carries on his pocket to mask the smell of the cigarettes he smokes — while he should be in class — sitting on the grass, just below the window by where Kevin sits, so he can look down and assure himself Riko is still there. 

It’s a fair trade, or so Kevin thinks. He would promptly give up his breathing if it meant awakening the dead walls of Riko’s lungs. He would dismantle himself, pick his whole body apart so Riko could choose which pieces of Kevin he wanted to fit the spaces where the broken parts of himself used to be. It’s easy, when you’re the only two human beings in the world whose anatomy is made up solely of exy rackets strung together by ropes named fear and rage.

Kevin wants to lose himself on Riko’s lips until he forgets the others, uglier parts of him.

Like his hands, small and bird-like, with its slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails; hands that tore into his own flesh and into Kevin’s more times than any of them dared to count. Like his teeth, which, he once said, had bit the Master’s hand when he was five and didn’t yet know his place; and that now close themselves against Kevin’s plump lower lip, until the metallic taste of blood explodes on his tongue. Like his legs, the whole scared mess of them, that frighten Kevin much more when they cross the whole court fast as a strike of lightning than when they kick a newbie that fell over from exhaustion; the same legs that wrap around his hips, bringing him closer until they’re grinding against each other, like they used to do in their fifteens, enveloped in darkness, before Lydia Shetfield took into her hands to teach them what goes where.

When they part to breathe, Riko’s lips are tinted red, like a vampire. Kevin thinks is fitting.

“If the only thing you’re going to do is let me grind against you, then we’re going to stay here all day long.” Riko’s voice drawls on each word, forever pulling Kevin with him to the edge of the precipice so he wouldn’t jump by himself. Kevin has long ago given up on walking back.

“I said _ quiet_,” Kevin hisses, because this is the only place where he’ll order and Riko will follow, and he’ll not surrender this, the single crumb of control he’s allowed to have. It might be the only thing besides exy for which he is willing to fight. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

(_of course he knows_)

Riko does not answer. Instead, he surges up, claiming Kevin's lips in yet another searing kiss, his hands grabbing Kevin's hair and pulling _ hard. _Kevin humors him for a whole ten seconds before pushing him down, a hand pressed over Riko's neck, holding him in place to prevent a reprise.

“Don't move,” Kevin says, and the fact that he's not imagining the shiver that travels through Riko’s body makes him even harder inside his shorts. He makes quick work of both their clothes while Riko obediently stays in place, even though Kevin knows he’s dying to flip their positions over and ride him so hard that, on the next day, every spark of pain on his thighs will remind Kevin of his cock buried inside him.

Riko, whose pale body of a boy never allowed to leave his red lacquered prison is spread over the black sheets, looking like a marble statue found somewhere in the northern coast of Italy. The raised lines of muscle along his stomach and thighs remind strike Kevin as twins to the ones displayed in Donatello’s David, with his sharp, arrogant smile carved from bronze and marble and uncounted drops of sweat. _ Or maybe_, he thinks, _ Endymion_—sleeping soundly through his demise, the grass below kissing his skin, begging him not to wake up.

(kevin could spend a whole day comparing riko to all the beautiful things he knows, and it still wouldn't be enough)

Kevin wants to say _ I hate you_, and he wants to mean it. He wants to say _ I hope you die _ without having his mind promptly complete with _ I hope we both die. _ Instead, he rakes his fingers along Riko's body, adding red marks to contrast with the thin, translucent lines of scars old and new.

His skin smells like the almond soap he always uses, tastes like the sea salt from that beach in Greece where they first kissed, playing along the chaos that thirty teenagers can make when hosted in a five star hotel in another country to sneak right under security’s eyes. Kevin leaves a bite for each scar, as if the shape of his teeth imprinted on Riko's flesh could erase the evidence of past encounters with a heavy-handed cane.

Riko's breath hitches when Kevin’s lips reach his hips, slowly making their way to the middle. It's almost imperceptible, but Kevin knows every single sign and sound of his, like the back of his hand, like a book he read over and over and over until the words imprinted themselves on his eyelids.

Riko shifts his hips just enough that if Kevin only turned his head, his mouth would be right over Riko's hard cock. For a second, the thought of making a concession crosses his mind. Maybe— Maybe he could take Riko in his mouth and then, when he was just about to come, he could turn over, on his fours, and press his head down on the pillow as he fucked him. Or maybe he could go lower, could trace Riko's hole with his tongue until his thighs were trembling, and then, when the his eyes filled up with unshed tears, he would eat him out and make him come without a single touch to his cock—a feat accomplished once, and which Kevin has since long been wanting to repeat.

But he already has Riko pliant and almost docile under his fingertips, something he has only managed a few times before, and not without pouring all his effort. It would be a waste, he thinks, if he didn't exploit that.

With a feather light press of his lips to the head of Riko's cock, Kevin shifts on his knees until he's kneeling above Riko's chest. He strokes his own cock once, twice, spreading the precum all over it. Riko rises his head to take one of Kevin's balls in his mouth and Kevin could almost have pulled him back by his hair for his disobedience, if only the sigh that leaves his mouth doesn't make it clear enough how much he's liking the initiative.

When he does it, however, Riko's cheeks and nose are tinted with a faint, pinkish blush. His gaze is fixed on Kevin's cock, which stands before him, slick and glistening. Kevin cradles Riko's chin with his hand and Riko leans into it almost unconsciously, his lips parting even before Kevin could get them to open with a press of his thumb.

He wants to say something but is scared that it will, somehow, ruin the magic, the state of suspension in which they're under. So instead he taps Riko's full bottom lip with the head of his cock; the immediate response comes into the form of a pink tongue surging up to lap at him, collecting the drops of precum straight from the sensitive slit.

With one hand, Kevin reaches for a stray lock of Riko’s fringe and puts it behind his ear, the gesture as sweet as the circles he strokes on Riko’s nape right afterwards, soothing and tender. With the other, he holds his cock as it disappears inch by inch inside Riko’s mouth, careful not to lose balance when he first feels Riko’s tongue flat against his underside, licking a long stripe of him—like a popsicle.

(or, well, as he imagines riko would do to a popsicle, if they were allowed to have them)

Kevin stops only when the head of his cock touches the back of Riko’s throat, and even though his thighs are trembling with the effort to stay still, Kevin doesn’t move, not even when Riko swallows around him and he can the muscles tighten against his sensitive flesh. Usually, he’s the one sitting while Riko kneels between his knees — begrudgingly, Kevin might add, and only because all the other positions are too uncomfortable —, holding his hips down so that Kevin does not dare to move while Riko’s head bobs up and down by his lap, until he milks Kevin of every last drop. 

He stays like that for, maybe, five seconds — that feel like the whole _ eternity _ — until he feels a pinch on his thigh; Riko’s signal for _ go on_, for _ I’m good_. Kevin gives a few slow thrusts, just so he can fall into it, the feeling of Riko's warm mouth around his cock, before he starts to fuck his throat for good.

It would be easy to simply let himself get lost in it, to close his eyes and keep thrusting shallow and fast until he reaches his orgasm. It would be easy to open his mouth and let spill forth the thousand filthy things he wants to say to Riko, how beautiful he looks—malleable, but not quite. The curve of his neck as he strains to stay in place sounds like what Kevin thinks a love confession should; the half-moon shaped dents his nails leave on the skin of Kevin’s hips taste like a thousand stolen touches right under the Master’s watchful eye.

It would be easy, and yet— And yet Kevin keeps his eyes open, fixed on Riko’s lips stretched around his cock, in his eyes, half-lidded and glassed over. Deep down, he’s scared that Riko will tell him to stop, like he would say when the loss of control became too much, crawled too deep under his skin, razor-thin and just as sharp. He needs to pay attention to Riko’s breath, to the stance of is shoulders, to anything that might show that there’s something not quite right.

But how hard it is, _ god_, fucking impossible, to be fair— When Riko hums around his length, taking the opportunity when Kevin’s hips falter for a single second to trace a path under the head, teasing the crown. And then (and then), he raises his eyes — and Kevin is sure he would be smirking, if he didn’t have a mouth full of cock —, lets his teeth graze against Kevin for the slightest bit, just to show he still has some sort of power left, and pinches his thigh again.

For how Kevin was the one telling Riko to keep quiet, it’s him who can’t hold the deep groan that leaves his mouth, snapping his hips so that Riko’s nose touches his pelvis with every thrust. There’s spit running down the corner of his lips as Kevin pulls him by the hair until Riko is flush against his groin, not a single inch of cock out of his mouth.

(if only kevin could keep him like that all the time)

Kevin keeps him like that until he can hear the first sounds of choking. When he looks down, Riko is wheezing; his cheeks tinted red as he grasps for air. Kevin could kiss him, right then, with his chin wet from saliva and his mouth heavy with the taste of penis, but he doesn’t want Riko to die of asphyxia. Not today, anyway.

(thought _ death by kiss _ may be the best above all the other ways to die written down on riko’s list)

He waits until Riko’s breathing holds somewhat steady before bending down until their foreheads can touch. The hand that was pulling Riko’s hair now caresses the strands as if they were crystal, crushed into dust. “Everything good?”

Riko’s glare would be threatening, if he wasn’t deepthroating Kevin less than a minute ago. “What, you think I can’t suck your cock anymore?”

Predictable. “You’re terrible, you know that?” Kevin sighs, asking for patience to twenty different gods at once. At least _ one _ of them has to hear him. 

“Whatever. I don’t get why you aren’t fucking me already.” Riko says, the corners of his mouth turning into a smirk at the ending, and Kevin can’t resist— He grabs Riko by the back of his neck and kisses him again, tasting himself over the peppermint, over the spitefulness, over the anger. 

Kevin is the one to bit Riko’s lip this time, throwing him back to the bed just in time to hear an _ ouch! _ Riko turns around and lies on his belly to reach for the hidden bottle of lube in the bedside table while Kevin bends his legs in the right position. He would give anything to give Riko’s ass a slap and then eat him out until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

(well, almost anything)

With the corner of his eye, he sees when Riko throws the bottle right at his face, and catches it with the easiness of a more than a decade of receiving Riko’s passes. Riko, whose face is buried on the pillow, makes a show of not looking. Kevin has half the wish to stop what he’s doing until he can get Riko to look him in the eye, but they’re threading on thin ice already with the time.

It’s a wonder how any of their teammates hadn’t called them for a meeting yet. It is one of the only two things you’re allowed to do in the Nest: play exy, and then talk about how your playing sucks and how better you need to become to reach what the Master expects of you.

Kevin shakes his head—he’ll be damned if he lets his mind drift to exy now. He’s just warming the cool gel between his fingers when he hears a muffled sound coming from somewhere around Riko’s head.

“What?” he asks, which is followed by more noises, in a somewhat angry tone. “Use your fucking mouth, won’t you?”

“I’m saying—” Riko raises his head, but still refusing to look at Kevin. “That you’re taking too long and that, for the love of every god in this sorry world, I really hope you aren’t thinking about exy.”

“What? Of course I’m not!” It’s a good thing, then, that Riko isn’t looking at him, because if he doesn’t pick up the lie by Kevin’s tone — which Kevin suspects he will — that ridiculous tick on his eyebrow everytime he lies would surely uncover him. “How many times I’ve told you to shut up already?”

“I wouldn’t be talking if only you did your damn— Oh, _ that’s it_.” 

Riko quickly bites his lip and buries his head on the pillow again. Kevin steadies his hips with one hand, feeling how tight the muscles feel, all locked into place, so that Riko stays perfectly still under Kevin’s hand. And he’s tight on the inside too—with all the matches and the practices and the pressure, it’s not every time they can give themselves the luxury of getting past blowjobs. Nothing worse than trying to disguise a limp while running ten laps around the court, or so Riko says.

The second finger slides in easier, but still. Sometimes Kevin has no idea how Riko manages to take him fully; in his mind, it's just a thing that happens. Like quantum mechanics. He crooks his fingers just the right amount so that their tips don't do much more than graze Riko's prostate in the faintest of touches. If he concentrates enough, he can feel the slight tremor that goes past Riko's body, when it happens.

Slowly, he can feel Riko's body relaxing, the taut cord inside him unrolling itself into loose loops. Kevin is tempted to insert a third finger, for safety, but Riko will probably try to kick him if he does that. _ I want you to hurt me_, he said once, his breath tickling Kevin's ear as he rode him atop one of the benches in the changing room, past midnight. _ So I can still feel it tomorrow. _

Kevin swallows back the need to ask Riko if he's ready, knowing very well the only thing it'll get him is a sarcastic retort wrapped up in a cover of nonchalance. Instead, kisses the end of Riko's tailbone as he pulls his fingers out, still wet with lube. 

He's tempted to simply straddle Riko's legs and fuck him like that, flat against the mattress. Utter submission—and isn't that what Kevin craves from him, at least here, in the only place he can hope to achieve it? And yet—and yet, it doesn't sound right. It doesn't sound _ enough. _

Kevin holds Riko by the hips and, in a single, smooth movement of his arms, flips him so that Riko is now lying on his back. Before he can even _ think _of complaining, Kevin's body is on top of him, trapping his until now untouched cock between their stomachs. The moan Riko was just about to let out is swallowed by another kiss, by Kevin's tongue claiming his mouth at the same moment Kevin's cock pushes inside his body.

It feels _ right_, like taking back something that was stolen. They are, both of them, Moriyama’s property, little things, paws in this gigantic game of money and blood and power. But like that, Riko feels only his, and no one else's. Kevin could do anything to him, say anything to him, and Riko's only response would be biting his fingers not to moan as Kevin keeps working his hips so that every thrusts hits harder, so that his cock buries itself even deeper inside Riko's ass.

Riko's eyebrows are scrunched up as he waits for the pain to subside, to be overthrown by pleasure. Kevin tries to memorize the scene — Riko's closed eyes, his blushed nose — so that everytime Riko screams and fights and dons his sharp-beaked raven-monster armor, Kevin can flung himself back on time and remember this moment, this expression marring the otherwise regal visage.

Even anger bows its head to mercy. Kevin, the god of clemency, does not want Riko on his knees before him. No— If nothing else, he wants them to stand together; side by side.

And for that goal, he's gonna strip Riko's defenses down, rip out his claws and his pointed teeth, even if it kills him. Even if it kills them both.

Riko's legs are wrapped around his hips, the heels of his feet pressed against the small of Kevin's back. He keeps their bodies too close together, so that every movement provides the friction Riko's cock is chasing, staining both their stomachs with precome and turning everything into a mess of sweat and slick over his skin. Kevin thinks about licking every inch of him clean, after. 

(now he has more important things to worry about)

“I should have done this earlier,” he says, struggling to keep the rhythm undisturbed. Riko is biting his thumb to keep quiet, but Kevin won't settle for that, not this time. “In the middle of court, while everyone watched. You would let me, wouldn't you?”

Riko shakes his head and Kevin can't help but chuckle before bending to bite a path over his neck. It's just funny; how Riko has the nerve to deny that when Kevin is buried to the hilt inside his ass, when he had his whole cock inside Riko's mouth minutes ago. Funny—and just as infuriating. 

“What, you don't want them to see their king brought to his knees? Don't want them to know how beautiful you look, with my dick inside your mouth? Or you don't want them to know how easily you will open yourself to me— how much you crave to have a dick filling you, until you can’t think of them, of exy, of anything else.”

Riko places one hand over Kevin’s mouth, in a futile attempt to make him shut up. Kevin is unwilling to settle for that. He takes Riko’s hand in his own and kisses it, from his fingertips to his wrist, sucking hard on the faint white scars from where he scratched himself too deep when Kevin wasn’t there to stop him. 

The other hand, the one that was holding Riko’s hip, travels further up his body, tracing the taut muscles, pinching a nipple, until it’s resting on Riko’s neck; Kevin’s thumb is over his pulse point again, but not pressing. It’s just _ there_, in a provocation. A _ dare_. 

Besides his head, Riko’s fingers twitch in small, sharp spasms. He’s dying to just put his hand over Kevin’s and press down until he can’t feel any air going past his throat. But Kevin knows he’s not going to do that. Not there; not like this.

(because it’s not his place to do that)

“Say it,” Kevin says, no idea how he’s managing to keep his tone even when Riko is so deliciously tight against him, his muscles squeezing around Kevin’s length, almost as if they can’t let him go not even for a second.

Riko shakes his head, his breath now coming into short pants intermixed with moans that he can’t muffle enough. 

“Come on, now. There’s no need to make this hard on yourself.” Kevin stops entirely, only the tip of his cock still inside, even if his muscles tremble with the strain of keeping himself out of Riko’s body. They are both covered in sweat, skin shining against the red and black of their room, as the painting of a scene which is simultaneously sacred and blasphemous. “I can wait here all day, you know.”

(he definitely can’t)

Kevin can feel it, under his hands: the Adam’s apple bobbing as Riko swallows back, struggling, fighting against himself. He is teary-eyed and trembling, his bottom lip bitten bloody red along with his fingers. And yet, Kevin thinks, even if it might be enough, even if there’s a big chance he’s pushing Riko down a cliff without knowing what awaits for him when he reaches (when they both reach) the ground— he refuses to give up this last taste of control.

Riko shivers when Kevin’s warm breath ghosts over his ear. There’s a soft bite on his earlobe, almost nothing, and then— “I’m giving you permission now. So just be a good boy and say it.”

Even before he finishes, he knows that’s it— the way Riko’s body locks itself up, trapped between Kevin’s arms, and then all at once every single muscle of him unwinds and he’s gone, gone, _ gone _ — “Shit, Kevin, just— just do it, choke me, please, _ please _—”

Kevin (always the servant, the knight, the queen, the _ second _) doesn’t need to be told twice. He presses down on Riko’s throat hard as he reestablishes a rhythm, but whereas he was pure strength now it’s just speed and a sprinkle of finesse, enough for him to line up his cock with Riko’s prostate and hit it with every thrust until, in a mess of choked up sounds and tears, he can feel Riko coming between their bodies, his eyes turning back as the lack of oxygen sends a short circuit through every cell of his.

Three more thrusts and Kevin is gone too, shooting his come inside Riko as everything else disappears from his mind. His vision is one big, white screen; like cotton candy-flavored clouds, taking up the whole sky. Distinctly, he can feel the taste on the tip of his tongue. A dream, he thinks—or maybe he’s just kissing Riko’s shoulder. 

(it’s hard to establish a difference)

Dream or not, he could easily go to sleep like this. The adrenaline is gone and his limbs are starting to feel like lead; moving sounds painful and absolutely unwanted. Kevin presses his mouth on the curve of Riko’s shoulder again, one last time, before, inevitably, he feels it—two small hands, weakly hitting his chest, pushing him away. 

It’s always like this.

Kevin sighs and then rolls back, slipping out of Riko in the process. And Riko, well. Riko turns to the other side, showing his back to Kevin, and curls on itself like a poked animal. When Riko hugs himself, all that Kevin can think of is someone looking for protection. Kevin wants to ask _ from what? _ Or better: _ from whom? _ But there’s no point in making a question when he already knows it won’t be answered.

Instead of talking, Kevin hears. He pays attention to the sound of Riko’s breathing as it calms down, begins to even. He watches as Riko slowly massages his neck, fingers pressing down on the spots where Kevin’s ones were, a minute ago. There’s going to be purple marks. Bruises. But then, Riko always said that he likes when Kevin hurts him—he’s going to be a mess of scars and bruises anyway. Let them at least bring forth a reminder of pleasure.

For someone who was so worried about the time, Kevin doesn’t feel as it passes by them in their little limbo. Seconds or minutes later, he extends his arm until it reaches Riko’s nape; he twirls the smaller strands of hair around his fingers and runs a thumb over the curve of his bone. Maybe, just _ maybe_, Riko leans back at the touch. If someone asked Kevin, afterwards, he wouldn’t know.

“Do you think someone heard?” Riko asks, his voice so hoarse Kevin has to strain his ears so he can hear. He doesn’t know if it was from his cock or the choking. As all good things are, most likely a mix of both.

And Kevin knows that when he asks _ someone_, he means _ the master_. But they would be already broken and bleeding on the floor, if Tetsuji had heard. “No one did.”

Slowly, Riko turns on his side. Like this, face to face, Kevin can see the wet streaks on his cheeks where the tears made their path. He fully expects Riko to bat his hand away when he makes to clean them, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just too tired for that. Or maybe— Forget it. It’s not a good thing, to dwell on _ may bes _ “How can you know?”

Kevin shrugs. It’s the best answer he can give, after _ your uncle would have us almost dead by now. _

Riko snickers, and shrugs back like it’s a game. Like they’re six year olds again and Kayleigh is driving them to the aquarium while they make faces at each other on the backseat. “Sometimes, you make it sound so easy.”

There’s nothing Kevin can say to that. The right answer would be _ but it can be easy, if you want. _ Truth is, it can’t. Truth is, Riko doesn’t want to. 

“Do you wanna see if there’s a meeting going on already?”

Riko raises one eyebrow before answering, “It’s not like they would have started without me, anyway.” He sighs, again, and this time he looks every bit the small, caged bird Kevin remembers from their childhood. “Now shut up. I think I might actually sleep right now, if you let me.”

Kevin waits until Riko closes his eyes before mouthing _ good dreams_. There’s no noise coming from the hallway. No sound at all on the Raven’s Nest. Riko’s breathing is as silent as the rest of him.

And then, because Riko isn’t looking, Kevin stares at his slightly open lips, moving with his breath — alive alive _ alive _ (until when?) — until he, too, falls into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> morgana, who has never read aftg: i think this fic is amazing  
me: WELL IF YOU'RE SAYING SO WHOMST I TO DISAGREE
> 
> [ppl who write pwp fics with less than 2k words: HOW???? TEACH ME]


End file.
